Javier carried Jimena in his arms, following the man he believed to be a shaman. He wasn't certain what they wanted from him, but the man had been insistent that he remain close.
Kauyumari had asked him for respect, and so he would try. The spirit had shown no malice, despite Javier's lingering wariness. The people here, too, had been kind to both him and his daughter. The care they had shown Jimena was something he wished to repay, even if he didn't yet know how.
So he walked on, quietly observing his surroundings. He had spent nearly all his time beside Jimena since their arrival. Apart from that first moment—when the people had eyed him with caution, even after Kauyumari's introduction—he had remained on the fringes.
It was only when the shaman laid eyes on Jimena that Javier had been allowed deeper into the small tent village.
The people here seemed downcast, burdened by something unseen. Yet his passing appeared to lift their spirits—or perhaps it was Jimena in his arms that did so.
Much like now, as he walked, people emerged from their fur tents to watch him pass, curiosity written plainly on their faces.
Javier couldn't blame them. He found himself staring just as openly.
Their white clothing fascinated him. Some wore garments woven from coarse agave fibers, stiff and utilitarian, while others donned softer cloth that still retained the same pale hue. Many of the men wore wide-brimmed hats crowned with feathers, tassels dangling around the rims. Their faces were painted much like the shaman's—symbols repeating in quiet unity.
Eventually, the growing procession—many dressed in what Javier assumed to be ceremonial attire—arrived at a pine cove. There, people sat between the trees, working diligently on various crafts.
Javier marveled at the colors they used. Like his own village, they clearly cherished vibrancy. But what impressed him most was the skill of their hands. Women wore necklaces of vivid blues and greens, beads arranged in intricate patterns that caught the light.
Many of the people worked as if in a trance, pupils dilated, expressions distant—seeing something beyond what rested in their palms.
The shaman finally stopped at a riverbank where several elders sat in the same entranced state. Their faces, too, were painted with dotted patterns of corn and the sun.
He gestured for Javier to place Jimena down.
The mat beneath her was woven with care, depicting Kauyumari formed by circular green patterns and eight-pointed stars. A tapestry rich with meaning—telling a story Javier could sense, but not yet understand.
Jimena felt herself wandering aimlessly through an endless fog. Whispers she couldn't understand followed her wherever she went. Only at times did they come through clearly—calling her to walk their way, to embrace their path.
So she pretended she hadn't heard them, continuing forward in search of an exit. She refused to walk a path that was not her own.
That choice, unfortunately, brought agony to her soul.
The two fires within her fought relentlessly for control while her spirit, Xolo, lay between them, struggling to keep her from succumbing to either. His efforts met with only partial success as the flames chased one another endlessly, locked in a vicious cycle.
It reminded her of the corruption that had once torn through her soul—the dark energy that her fire had eventually consumed, allowing her to grow stronger. The lingering connection to Tomás had helped her track the creature before it could gain more power.
Something she had only managed to overcome because of Marisol and Jaime.
They weren't with her now.
The thought caused her spirit to sag, a quiet grief settling in as she remembered the great adventure she had been meant to have. Of how different things were supposed to be.
Her father being left behind in an unknown place barely registered through the haze.
Then something changed.
The fog lifted, and both the sun and moon appeared overhead. At first they were merged together, struggling for dominance, each trying to consume the other.
The golden flame took the form of the sun—brilliant, radiant, warming her body and filling her with life. The moon, in contrast, soothed her thoughts, calming and clearing her mind.
Xolo appeared then, leaping forward and taking a great bite from both with a single snap of his jaws. The dog looked enraged, as if offended by having been trapped between the two forces for so long—finally taking his revenge to preserve what little dignity he had left.
His right eye burned with gold. His left gleamed with moonlight.
Xolo howled into her world, the sound shaking her spirit realm within the gem.
Life and death cycled endlessly inside her.
For a brief moment, whispers of her mother overlapped with the golden fire before fading away. The memory of the sun in Mictlan surfaced, drawing her thoughts to her parent. She smiled at the recollection. The golden flame had forged a special connection with her now—one she would no longer reject, even if it brought her agony again.
"Wake up, child."
Mictecacihuatl's voice echoed through Xolo, who now filled most of her inner world, becoming both her sun and her moon.
My fire in the night, Tletlyohuac.